Unwelcome Relative
by faustBZ
Summary: Nine-year-old Adam has to write an essay, but he just can't.


_Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended._

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><p><strong>Unwelcome Relative<strong>

_by faust_

"_The Most Unwelcome Relative. By Adam Cartwright..."_

When you are nine and living in a wagon travelling from village to village stopping and staying every time your father has to work for money for the next part of your travel west, then you are happy when you stay at one place long enough to attend school. At least Adam was. He craved for learning when he was on the trail, starving from lack of input, always thirsty for words, numbers, pictures. He drank in knowledge wherever he found it; and to be able to stay at one place long enough to finally write an essay that would be graded was a luxury he had never dreamt of.

And now the topic Mr. Greensbush had given the students was "The Most Unwelcome Relative". Adam stared at the white paper on the desk in front of him. The other students were busily scribbling, the boy next to him giggled, "Aunt Agatha" for the sixth or seventh time, but he had no idea what to write. An unwelcome relative... He couldn't think of any relative who would be unwelcome to him. He didn't have many relatives, anyway, and he would welcome any of them at any time.

Grandpa Abel, who lived far away in Boston. Further away than anyone else because it was the opposite direction from where they headed. Grandpa Abel, the only link to Adam's mother, the only one who could tell him stories about the lady he knew only from a Daguerreotype. Stories from her childhood, stories from her youth, stories even from when he was born. Stories his father wouldn't tell because they hurt too much. Stories Adam wouldn't dare to ask for.

Uncle John, Pa's brother, who had given them a steady home for some months, and Cousin Will, the wild boy who climbed a tree quicker than anyone. Adam would love to show Will the small creek just outside town, where you could spend the afternoon fishing and throwing flat stones into the water making them jump. They would take Hoss with them, Will would teach Hoss how to pick the perfect stone; and Adam would show Will where to find the fattest worms. And at night, by the fire, Uncle John would tell Greek myths with his husky voice, and Pa would laugh low and content, and would tease and say John should stop telling these scary tales or Adam would have nightmares. The boys would tussle and the men would laugh, and it would be carefree and easy like it hasn't been for too long.

Uncle Gunnar, who might have been closest to an unwelcome relative. Uncle Gunnar, who finally came around and wished Ma and Pa nothing but happiness. Uncle Gunnar, whose stories would be even wilder than Uncle John's, and who would let Hoss ride on his broad shoulders and would take him and Adam on adventurous strolls through the woods and the meadows, down to the river and up in the mountains. Uncle Gunnar, who looked so much like Ma and who would know the words of the Swedish lullaby Pa had forgotten.

Pa and Hoss—did they count as relatives? Whatever they were, there was no way Adam would consider them unwelcome. They were essential. No, Adam decided, Pa and Hoss weren't relatives. They were his life, an integral part of his existence, the substance he depended on.

"Children, five more minutes."

Mr. Greensbush's voice pulled Adam out of his reverie. Five more minutes and a blank paper. Adam chewed on the inside of his cheek. Five more minutes, five more minutes. Four. Three. Two.

One.

Adam gazed at Mr. Greensbush, bit his lips, and decidedly picked up his pen. In a sudden attack he wrote down only one sentence in bold, broad letters:

"The only unwelcome relative I know is the unwelcome relative clause 'who died' that comes right after 'my mother'."

***fin***

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><p>The childhood shows the man<br>As morning shows the day.  
>~ <em>John Milton<em>


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